


Life Is Not a Love Song

by livtontea



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Gift Fic, Interviews, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21887605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livtontea/pseuds/livtontea
Summary: There’s a man sitting in a chair behind a desk. He’s just been asked a question. His eyes are tired, smeared with messy makeup. “Well,” he says, leaning back, “it's actually all a bit of a blur.”“If you want me to tell you so bad, fine then. I will. But you don’t get to back out halfway through. You have to listen the entire time, got it? I’m not going to tell this story twice.”
Relationships: Dave/Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	Life Is Not a Love Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dyllpickless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyllpickless/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for [@dyll-pickless](https://dyll-pickless.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, go check him out! On that note, HAPPY BIRTHDAY ORION!!! I'm a day late but, here's my gift! I love you! <3 I hope you like it. :D
> 
> Title is from [broken by lovelytheband](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qr1-WpWOUk8)

_Hello._

There’s a man sitting in a chair behind a desk. He’s just been asked a question. His eyes are tired, smeared with messy makeup. “Well,” he says, leaning back, “it's actually all a bit of a blur.”

He smirks, a sharp, short, grin piercing the aloofness of his face. “Honestly, I don’t think you would get it.”

His fingers are tapping, first on his arm and then moving to the harder surface of the table. The nail polish decorating them is chipping—patches of neon green having been scraped off. His wrist is obscured by fake fur, the black shreds of material tickling his skin.

“If you want me to tell you so bad, fine then. I will. But you don’t get to back out halfway through. You have to listen the entire time, got it? I’m not going to tell this story twice.”

* * *

It all starts out with the damn briefcase. Or wait, no, before that—with the assassins. The kidnapping. The… hours upon hours of torture. Damn, those guys really didn’t hold back, did they? Or maybe that _was_ them holding back—which is a bit of a scary thought, but they needed him for information, however useless he actually was in that department.

Anyway. It starts with the briefcase. Recap: he’d just been tortured for about a day, he’s tired and nearing a weird hazy delirious state, just finished slamming his head into a table, and finally! He’s free! Freer than he just was, at least.

Klaus is still naked—dressed in nothing but a towel pulled around his waist—when the lady kicks open (she probably doesn’t kick it open, but he lets himself have this small embellishment) the door and trains her gun on where he knows Hazel is hiding in the bathroom. That’s after she unties him and takes off the tape over his mouth, which, bless her. Thank god.

He doesn’t know who she is, but she’s practically his angel at this point.

That doesn’t mean he’s actually sticking around long enough to help, but, oh well. He’s very good at ignoring his brother, so Ben’s hisses of “Klaus, get back here!” get waved aside with a shake of his head.

He himself darts over to the vent, and starts pulling it open. One screw. The lady cop takes a step forward and calls out. Another screw. She clenches her teeth and levels her finger on the trigger. Hazel steps out and says he surrenders. Well, Klaus has been in too many hostage situations—both as victim and rescue—to fall for it. But the woman has her gun trained on the assassin, so it’s fine, right?

Third screw. There’s a gunshot and the tell-tale thud of a body hitting the ground. He rips the grate off his gateway out of this hell and thanks whatever god there is that one screw is missing.

He wiggles through the vent and there’s a briefcase there, too, blocking his path. He takes it with him. Not like they needed it, anyway, if they weren’t keeping an eye on it.

Then he’s out, and he’s running down the street until he finds himself on a bus. He can’t remember paying for a ticket, but he’s on it. He’d grabbed his coat, too—its pockets are pitifully empty, but it’s warmer, and probably the only thing letting him pass as dressed. How did they let him onto public transport? Who fucking knows.

He's got the briefcase. Hopefully, it’s filled with money or something, anything to compensate the—what was it? Right—hours upon hours upon hours of rigorous torture. Cool. He's doing fine, all things considered.

Klaus clicks open the briefcase and suddenly he isn't on the dirty bus anymore.

He's on the floor. There's yelling and gunshots all around, and, well, this is where the story _really_ begins.

Yeah, yeah, there it is! He looks up and meets a guy's eyes. Damn. Those are some nice eyes. A nice body, too—the guy is shirtless and ruffled from sleep, squinting at Klaus' rattled form. But this isn't the time to be fawning over some random dude's muscles—which, _damn,_ by the way—it's time to try and figure out where the fuck he is.

Then he's being yelled at to put on pants, and a gun is being shoved into his hands, and everybody is being herded onto a bus.

Okay. This is—it's not fine at all, but he can work with this. Hopefully. Maybe. If he's lucky. He’ll figure something out, he’s always been quick on his feet. Shit, that isn’t how the saying goes.

He's still screwed up from the fun times with Hazel and Cha-Cha, alright? Christ, the dried blood on his chest itches.

The cute guy from before—yeah, he does think he's cute—leans over to where Klaus is sitting.

"You just get in country?" he asks, all nice and smile-y and… well, kind. Huh.

“Oh, uh...” Klaus doesn’t know exactly what to say, because pardon him, but he’s never been in this situation before. “Yeah.”

_Looks like we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto._

He thinks he can remember Ben rolling his eyes and saying something about how that isn’t the actual quote. Well, Ben’s evidently not here, so fuck him.

They keep talking—or rather, the guy keeps talking and Klaus keeps trying to keep up. All things considered, he’s doing a pretty good job. The guy introduces himself. Dave.

“You know,” says Dave, “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

Klaus makes a herculean effort to not stare at his smile, and says, “I think you’re right.”

It’s actually really funny, how easy it is to—he’s not saying it—enjoy Dave’s presence. Dave winces sympathetically when he helps Klaus wash the blood off his skin. He laughs and smiles when Klaus jokes around, even though he isn’t joking at all—Dave doesn’t know that though, and it should stay that way.

He teaches Klaus how to use a gun. He’d already known how, of course, but not a gun like this; and he’s years out of practice.

Fuck, who is he kidding. He’s falling for him. He’s falling for Dave, which is—he cannot stress this enough—an _incredibly_ stupid idea. It’s the sixties! They’re in the war! And here’s Klaus, lying awake at night thinking about Dave’s fucking _smile._ God. What a joke.

It’s a really nice smile though.

“Ugh,” groans Klaus. He turns over, and sure enough—Dave is lying on his side, face mushed into the pillow. Klaus frowns. He looks too perfect. Why is anybody allowed to look like that? He’s not even that good-looking, objectively. His front teeth are slightly crooked, and his hair is messy, and his ears stick out.

“Everything alright?”

He shuts his eyes at Dave’s voice. It’s fine. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Just… counting sheep, you know how it is.”

“Goodluck with that,” says Dave, and he laughs. It’s not a perfect laugh, not even close—it’s filled with clangs snorts and various imperfections, but it’s _Dave’s_ laugh. And…

Klaus has to cut himself off right there, because there is no way in goddamn hell he is admitting he has fallen in love with that ugly wheezy laugh of Dave’s. He is _not_ saying that Dave’s clangy, loud, imperfect laugh is the best thing he’s ever heard. He isn’t.

“Night, Klaus.”

“Night, Dave.”

_Fuck._

* * *

He pauses. “I. Give me a second.”

His fingers are still tapping, hammering out a beat that doesn’t make any sense. His voice sounds choked up. “It was a good laugh.”

He doesn’t elaborate. The man coughs into his fist and the faded umbrella tattoo peeks out from his sleeve. There’s a quick glint of metal from the dog tags hanging around his neck.

“I’m not done yet.”

Somehow, he seems duller. More muted. Maybe melancholy is the right word—but either way, he continues speaking without any regard for the state of his audience.

* * *

Soon enough, it’s glaringly obvious. Klaus loves Dave.

Alright. Fuck. It was never supposed to get to this point. But he keeps finding himself thinking about Dave’s eyes, or his smile, or his laugh—damn that laugh, it’s probably what’s responsible for all of this in the first place.

Dave is so stupidly _good,_ it’s unreal. He’s one of the kindest people Klaus has met, maybe even _the_ kindest, off the top of his head. Which is unfortunate, because he is meant to be with absolutely anybody but Klaus.

He’s almost certainly straight. Almost—because while Klaus is a self-deprecative shit, he’s not blind, nor an idiot (contrary to popular belief). He knows Dave’s eyes linger sometimes.

It would be nice, if Dave felt anywhere close to the same way, but he can face it. It’s unrealistic.

Then they’re kissing in the corner of the dance floor, and Klaus is doubting his past self knew what he was talking about. Dave laughs. And then kisses him again. And—

 _Fuck._ It's amazing. Dave kisses him again and again and their mouths keep meeting. His hand is cupping Klaus' cheek, and it fits. It fits! He doesn't think anybody's hand has ever been just the right size to hold him, but Dave's _fits._

Klaus almost bursts into tears, then and there. He knows it's stupid, he knows they're in the middle of a war, he knows that this isn't built to last—but he doesn't care. He's been waiting for this for so long. And now he's being kissed by Dave.

There is something so unique, so special about it; being kissed and not doing the kissing. Kissing versus making out. It’s…

He loves it. He could live forever in this moment, just him and Dave and the disco music sending vibrations through the floor.

Dave kisses him again. Klaus kisses back. It’s all so gentle and new—there’s no tongue forcing itself down his throat, no hands scratching at his skin through his shirt, no fingers tangling themselves in and yanking at his hair—it’s just _Dave._

He thinks he could go on like this forever.

Kissing Dave. Being kissed by Dave. Just… Dave.

He doesn’t say it, not yet, but he thinks Dave knows what he really means when he says “I think we’re getting along just fine.”

Dave laughs—he laughs! His beautiful, imperfect, laugh!—and takes Klaus’ hand, and says, “I think so too.” And then he kisses him again, and Klaus melts.

* * *

He wipes at the corner of his eye. Coughs—once, then twice, clearing his throat. "I'm fine."

His fingers aren't tapping anymore; the newfound silence is dreadful, however temporary it may be. His hands drift to his shoulder, and then his stomach. His fingers ghost over where skin is hidden by fabric. He tries to school his face back into his initial expression—aloof and detached—but his lip quivers.

He coughs again. “Let’s keep going. Sorry. This is getting long.”

* * *

Klaus loves Dave. Klaus loves Dave! That isn’t the best part, because incredibly, Dave loves Klaus back. It’s amazing. He can never stop thinking about Dave’s smiles and hands brushing along his skin. Dave is so… vibrant. He’s Dave. Klaus loves him—so much.

He has a tattoo now, to show it; “Klaus loves Dave” is written on his stomach. When he showed Dave the man laughed and asked him, why? He didn’t say it was because he’d never loved somebody like this before. It’s known that Klaus is narcissistic and self-centered; loving only himself, and even then, not a whole lot. But he can say with utter certainty—he loves Dave more than he has ever loved himself.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t you like it?”

Dave laughed (Klaus will never tire of hearing his laugh) and said, “Yeah. I do.”

He’s always had commitment issues, so he’s not going as far as to say he’s _in_ love with him—he loves Dave.

It’s weird. Not loving Dave, that could never be weird, or strange—the weird thing is, he’s happy. In the middle of the motherfucking _Vietnam war,_ surrounded by death and bombs and so many ghosts, he’s happy. He’d run away and found himself here, and he’s _happy._ With Dave.

He almost can’t believe it. It’s been months, now—almost a year. Klaus loves Dave, and Dave assures him he loves Klaus; he believes it. Dave’s too good to lie about things like that.

But naturally, as things tend to be, it all cuts off abruptly. Dave is taken away, and it’s so easy. He hates how simple and fast it is. One bullet is all it takes for him to bend down over Dave’s body, stroking his face and whispering for him to stay. Please.

“Don’t go,” Klaus says, and Dave doesn’t answer, but his hand twitches against Klaus’ fingers. “Don’t leave. Dave, come on, Dave!”

There’s blood everywhere. It’s sticking to his skin, smearing across his fingers and staining Dave’s face. It’s under his nails, in the crevices on his palms, _everywhere._ Dave’s blood is covering him like paint splashing a canvas; red, wet, _permanent._

Dave is dead. He’s fucking dead. Torn from Klaus like a balloon ripped from a child’s hand and left to soar far away into the sky. Klaus was in love with him, he can say now, because it’s not like there’s a point in hiding when there’s nobody to hide _from._

* * *

“No, that’s it. I’m done, I can’t, I’m—” He covers his face with his hands—hello, goodbye. He’s crying. Black tear tracks are dripping down his face, cheap eyeshadow and mascara blending together into a mess that seeps into his skin.

“We’re done here,” he says, and stands up. “Go on, get out, you—” He chokes back a sob. “Leave. Cut. End scene.”

He walks out of the room, scrubbing at his eyes. It doesn’t do anything to hide his sobs.

* * *

On the bus—same bus, different time, fuck this—Klaus breaks.

_Goodbye._

**Author's Note:**

> ;-;
> 
> Klave makes me,,, so incredibly sad,,, I had to do this I'm sorry. If you couldn't tell, this is supposed to be a sort of interview with Klaus post-Vietnam. Sorry for any spelling mistakes and such!
> 
> Orion, I hope you liked it!! I love you, dude. 
> 
> My tumblr is [@seven-misfits](https://seven-misfits.tumblr.com/)! Drop a line, I'd love to know your thoughts! :)


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